With the plodding detail of placing one foot in front of the other, Everson recalled the pre-battle preparations, until he suddenly remembered the life-giving hydreeds he was carrying. Feverishly, his fingers fumbled with the clasp of the pouch attached to his utility belt. He finally wrestled it open and plucked a small, wrinkled, egg-shaped pod from the dozen or so packed inside. The plant from which the hydreed came grew in terrain much like this near the Asunder Chasm, Indira’s equivalent of the Grand Schism, where volcanic activity and ground-splitting tremors were the norm.

Everson brought the pod to his face, his hand trembling with anticipation. His jaw worked as if he were praying under his breath, but he was actually trying to produce a mouthful of spit.

Nothing came. All he felt in his mouth was his parched lump of a tongue. He sighed in frustration, thought for a brief moment, and glanced all around him at the featureless desert. There was no sign of a living thing anywhere. Without further hesitation, he set the hydreed on the ground and unbuttoned his fly.

As he waited for a reticent bladder, Everson remembered his childhood and how his mother would bring out hydreeds just to delight him and his friends. There had been squeals of laughter at the transformation, at the percussive whump of expansion when the hydreeds had been dribbled with liquid. Presently, his anticipation was perhaps even greater than it was when he had been five. He danced a little in place as if to move things along.

A few errant drops of urine hit the dusty ground and were absorbed immediately. Everson adjusted his aim until a feeble stream hit the pod. He jumped back a bit when the hydreed expanded violently with a sudden wet, cracking thump that split the silent air. It wobbled before him on the cracked desert floor, a little larger now than the size of his head.

Everson quickly secured his pants and drew the heavy broadsword that he had reclaimed from a fallen comrade. He brought the blade down hard, and the hydreed split with a juicy crack. Then he buried his face in it.

The spongy pulp disintegrated in his mouth as he practically inhaled the contents, stopping only when his nose hit the solid rind. Dropping the drained husk, he stood for a moment breathing heavily. He consumed the second half with far less urgency, savoring the green coolness of each swallow as it flowed down his throat.

Everson squeezed the remaining pulp over his head and let it run down the nape of his neck and trickle down the crease of his spine.

Temporarily quenched, Everson took a moment to close his eyes. He couldn’t shut out the alien world, its suns glowing orange through his closed lids. That glare was truth. It was reality. Once again, his mind drifted back to the pre-battle preparations, to the strategic checklist that seemed so simple to achieve. Though Everson had never so much as lifted a finger in battle, he knew in his heart that wars were not so easily won…